Tuesday, April 12, 2005

The Truth of the Blind

By birth, I have carried and displayed this handicap. For my vision has been both a traitor and a friend to me and to those around me. I do not see with my eyes, it is the truth, for I see beyond what limits the sight of many. This gift is not one that I despise, and yet it is not one I embrace with all acceptance, for you see, the world does not look kindly upon those who could not conform to its structure. But truth be said, that the structure in which we exist right now, is but fruits of the hands of men, fallible and laden with errors; the leeway that society has set could never be constant, but perhaps in past or future, both times beyond us and not belonging to us, what is acceptable at present is a blasphemy or a work of treachery then and perhaps soon.

What then is perfection, that we dream of it and we fill our minds with its lies? Why do we strive for such, when there is no such thing, but that what is set by our minds? Let me explain further. A 100 in a quiz does not mean a perfect score, it is the structure of society that dictates it to be perfect in order to set a standard in which people would begin to strive for, but in truth, it is not perfect. A perfect score is what one strives to gain, should I hope to achieve a 76 in that particular test, regardless of how high or low I attain, if it had failed to sit upon the throne of 76, it can never, in my perspective, ever be considered as perfect.

Thus comes to mind the question of idealism, for it is in relative perfection that we begin to experience idealism. And yet, when we hope to gain the reality in idealism, we begin to push ourselves towards the route of our relative perfection, and yet, because of such, we also begin to subject ourselves to the discontent that is and will be generously scattered in human existence. What then are we here for but to dream and exist in discontent, for without this idealism, we would become just mere zombies pulling our legs on the pavement, soiling our clothes with sweat, and yet never, ever, ever, would experience the thrills and sponteniety and wonder that life has to offer. It is in such a dragging life, that one becomes dead and non existent, a tree unable to bear fruit for there is no fruit that he wants to bear.